Narcotics, Neurotics, and A Cigarette
by Artisian
Summary: Superspys need comfort too. But when they have no family, no friends, and a government agency on their back, who, or what, do they turn to? Oneshot.


**Author's Note:** People use drugs for a reason. Alex just has more of them.

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Narcotics, Neurotics, and A Cigarette

Alex looked at the small cylinder in his hands, inwardly laughing at the fact that a something so insignificant had come to rule his life.

It had been something fun to do, just to relax.

He had once thought himself too moral, too proud of his athletic health to do these things. But now, he found it comforting that something could be done to make him die a little faster...

So many years have passed since he was first approached by Crawley. Since then, he's been shot at, kicked, punched, run over, and left to recover; all too many times.

Now he had taken his life into his own hands. Heck, he didn't need people running him over, he could kill _himself_, thank you very much.

With two beers in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, a thoroughly fed up Alex Rider walked out the door of yet another motel and sat on the questionably clean steps. Grey walls surrounded him and his only companion was a run down transport truck.

Alex looked at his cigarette. Well, he needed his lungs to run from his pursuers, didn't he? The cigarette was tossed away, suddenly repulsive. He grabbed the beer he had placed down next to him and brought it to his lips. It suddenly hit him that he was about to put something that can be used to kill bacteria into his body.

A heavy sighed escaped Alex. Another mission, another scar; another part of his humanity forcibly torn away from him. Alex Rider now had the blood of another on his hands. His hands, already blood red, were stained with yet another kill. The hands found the bottle cap and savagely tore it away.

Alex drank, taking swig after swig of the cheap vile toxin. Every few swigs a delightful thing happened. He reached a stage, where, miracles of miracles, he forgot.

He forgot that M16 blackmailed someone so innocent into working for them by threatening to deport his one and only friend; forgot that M16 killed his uncle, the one he ever loved; forgot that the double life he lead to protect the ones he loved only ended up hurting them - _or, occasionally - _maiming them.

Tom Harris's face filled his mind's eye. Tom had been mistaken for Alex and shot in the lower back by a gangster with a bone to pick with Alex.

Tom was now a quadriplegic, unable to the only thing he ever excelled at. His soccer scholarship was now for naught. Tom's once bright eyes had dulled, and his contributions to conversations now consisted of 'Yes' and 'No'.

On the last visit Alex paid to Tom, Tom had confided in Alex. He was unhappy with his life, and found no reason to live. His mobility had meant everything to him. The visit had ended with both friends barely able to conceal their emotions and Tom with the final word, "Alex, this is not your fault. Alex, do you hear me?! THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT!"

Two days later, Tom Harris, Alex's only friend, committed suicide by overdosing on prescription pain killers.

Alex didn't cry then - the event was just so raw, the pain too fresh - but he did now. Tom was dead, and whether Tom acknowledged it or not, it was _his _fault. Tom's only mistake was befriending him, a companionship that proved to be deadly. Tears flooded his eyes and spilled over, cutting shimmering lines through the dirt on his face. Salty tears stung the cut on his lower jaw, the pain of which could not hold a candle to what he was feeling. His heart was being stabbed repeatedly, first with guilt, then with hatred, and finally, with self-loathing.

Hatred was a bile that forced its way up Alex's throat. Another swig pushed it back down. Oh, he hated M16. He hated Blunt, that immoral scum; he hated Jones, that heartless wench. He even hated Crawley. Oh God, how he hated Crawley. That bastard.

He shouldn't have been so selfish. _Swig_. He should have just said no to M16. _Swig_. Then, he would be in some boarding school. _Swig_. Jack would be in America, happy, everyday forgetting the little British boy she had once taken care of. _Swig_. Instead of worrying, and driving herself crazy._ Swig_. Tom, well, he never would have even _met_ Tom. _Swig_. So, Tom would be alive, had he never come into contact with Alex, and Jack would have been happy. _Swig_._ Swig_.

It seemed that existing was the bain of his existence.

Finally, as if even the bottle was teaming up with the rest of the world to spite him, the bottle was empty. What was more frustrating was that he wasn't even buzzed. Not in the least, just slightly more annoyed at the world.

What one would consider a blessing, was now a curse.

He had been forced to develop a tolerance to alcohol at age fourteen, when a very ruthless bunch of terrorists had forced bottle after bottle of wine into him. It was more than ten years ago, but the memory was a still vivid.

"Alcohol makes loose lips, bor." A coarse accented voice had whispered into his ear, and shoved the neck of an open wine bottle into Alex's mouth.

Blindfolded, naked, and tied to a chair, Alex had no choice but to swallow the liquid rushing into his mouth, or drown.

Alex pushed the memory aside, surprised to find that he was still angry.

His life was a play performed for an audience that was never watching, an audience that would never be grateful, an audience that would never even acknowledge the roles that he played.

He grabbed the second bottle angrily and threw it back, letting the liquid burn his mouth. He was still alive, but his life had ended a long time ago.M16 had taken it away, not only from him, but from those he loved. From Jack, who was too worried about him to live her own life, from Sabina, whose father was still recovering from the attack, and from Tom, who took his own life after M16 had taken all purpose from it.

Anger filled Alex. There was nothing he could do to help any of them. He was incapable of doing anything, he could stop and M16 would take revenge on his friends; or he could quit and watch M16 leech away all fulfillment from their lives.

Suddenly, the liquid turned bitter in Alex's mouth. For the love of God, betrayed by the beer! Alex spat the stuff out and threw the beer at the truck, watching the glass shatter. The breaking glass released the copper coloured liquid. Alex watched as tiny golden rivulets made their way down the coarse exterior of the truck and into the ground, golden droplets hiding from view.

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So. I had a couple doubts about this story. Let me know what you think. C'mon, button's right there!

Right...

here!


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